


Brain in a Jar

by iwriteholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Anorexia, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwriteholmes/pseuds/iwriteholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's food issues are deep-seated and, at times, severe. This fic explores them throughout his life, from childhood, to his days at University and through present day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a fully-fleshed work that's been living in my head for a very long time. If there is any interest, I will continue it. So please, let me know what you think. I welcome all criticism.

When John got home that evening, Sherlock's coat was in a crumpled heap on the floor of the kitchen. Slamming the contents of his pocket onto the counter in a jingling mess, John frowned thickly. Bad enough Sherlock insisted on wearing that blasted wool overcoat through the hottest July London had seen in fifty years, but the fact that John had trekked all the way up to bloody Ikea just last week to purchase -- on his own heard-earned tab, he might loudly add -- an over-the-door coat hook specifically to solve this ongoing coat-on-the-floor issue. Well, it was too much. John drew an intake of breath and turned toward Sherlock's bedroom, ready to shout through the wall at his flatmate. 

Instead, he coughed in surprise.

It was not Sherlock's coat in a crumpled heap on the floor of the kitchen. It was Sherlock. His eyes were not open, but they weren't entirely closed either -- an unseeing crescent of silver glistened through his lashes. His right arm and shoulder sprawled out of his coat, and under him, shirtsleeve rolled and a telling red tourniquet bound around his sinewy arm. A syringe and an overturned vial laid not far away. A sheer line of dried drool or vomit crusted the side of his cheek. So he had been like this for a while. John's heart lunged for half a second before slipping into the alert calm of a medical professional.

He squatted on his heels. After loosening the tourniquet, he slipped his thumb and index finger around Sherlock's wrist. The pulse was there, frantic and faint, but there nonetheless. He needed an ambulance. John patted the pockets of his trousers for his phone.

"Fuck's sake." John glanced up at the counter, where his keys, mobile and loose change had landed moments ago. His bad leg protested as he fumbled to his feet. Teeth gritted, he let out a curse, reverberating harshly throughout the flat.

At this, Sherlock stirred. 

"No ambulance. Lestrade...", Sherlock begged n a voice that was halfway between a gagging cough and a whisper. He made a pathetic effort to accomplish something like sitting upright.

John's thumb hovered over the pre-programed button for emergency services. "You've overdosed, you sodding idiot. You need more help than I can give you here--"

"There's a mug in the cupboard which I've lined with dioxin capable of transdermal intoxication. Call and I won't tell you which one." His voice was still ragged but it was sounding more like Sherlock. This might very well be the first time in their tenure as flatmates that John had been glad to hear that posh, measured, rapid-fire arrogance. 

"Thanks for the warning, mate," John shot back sarcastically, striding over to Sherlock, hovering over him. "I guess there's another trip to the Ikea housewares department in my future. Didn't think I'd need to be keeping my tableware under lock and key, but --"

"I didn't overdose." Sherlock said firmly, a tone of realization in his voice. Through the humming, darkened blur of his vision, Sherlock shifted his head and attempted to focus. _A pungent dark spatter on the suede of John's left loafer -- cooking oil -- peanut -- a southeast Asian variety -- so he'd accompanied Emma to her Thai cooking class this evening -- perhaps things were over with Caroline, then --_ no, no, no. Sherlock closed his eyes, struggling to push the torrent of irrelevant deductions aside. He hadn't overdosed. Of course he hadn't. He hadn't even shot up yet. What then? Pulse markedly rapid, mild edema of the tongue, throbbing head, acute nausea, vision swarming with pin pricks of light, almost certainly attributable to low blood pressure. "Simple dehydration. Bring me a glass of water, John."

"You just told me--"

"Did you not hear me or did you simply not process it in that exceedingly normal brain of yours? The glasses are safe. Just don't touch the mugs."

John turned the tap, grabbing his keychain torch as the glass filled. Thrusting the glass into Sherlock's hand, John flicked on the torch. "Eyes at me." Sherlock's pale green eyes dilated obediently in response to the light. 

"I didn't hit my head." The screaming ache of his shoulder and elbow told him he'd at least had avoided that much. Better the transport than the brain. 

Satisfied, John flicked off the light and helped Sherlock into a sitting position, removing the bulky coat as he went. Sherlock leaned weakly into John's hand, and John noticed with a start how palpable his spine and ribcage were though his shirt. Scarcely a trace of any padding -- fat nor muscle. Not that it should have shocked him, as long as he'd known him, Sherlock had been underweight by any measure. The man ate less than a toddler. But he hadn't cause to see much, given Sherlock's unwavering attachment to that damn coat. But now John noticed how sunken and tired his face appeared -- had he always been able to see Sherlock's upper gum-line through his hollow cheek? He didn't think so. But that was irrelevant now, as Sherlock was gulping down the contents of the glass in breathless swallows. "Sherlock, you might want to ease up ---"

Sherlock slapped down the empty glass triumphantly and scowled at John. "I'll be fine, I just need --" Sherlock suddenly jerked forward with a deep retch. John automatically positioned his other hand on Sherlock's abdomen, steadying him on either side as he vomited a thin, clear mixture of water and stomach acid. John winced. When nothing was left Sherlock continue to dry heave.. Hands on either side of Sherlock's torso, he could feel the thin sheath of abdominal muscles quivering with the effort of ejecting the emptiness that Sherlock's stomach held. He was too thin, much too thin. Emaciated. When John felt his thumb hook into the underside of Sherlock's ribcage, Sherlock slapped his hands away with surprising force. He slumped to the floor, panting. "Let's try that again."

"Right. I'll ring the ambulance."

"No!" Sherlock jolted upright and looked threateningly like he was attempt to stand. "if you do that, I'll never work again. Lestrade -- "

"What does Lestrade...? If this is about the drugs bust, nobody needs to know. That is the least of my concerns. You very clearly haven't been taking care of yourself and -- "

"John," Sherlock said. No, he pleaded it. In a very un-Sherlock way. "Please, John. I assure you that this will not happen again." It should have never happened in the first place, after all. He'd been careless. 

Everything in John's head -- the part where twentry-three combined years of clinical training and experience lived, told him that Sherlock needed help. That this condition, whatever it was, required hospitalisation. But then, Sherlock was John's friend, and John's friends lived somewhere that wasn't his head. Furthermore, it was Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes was not typical, as a patient or as a person. John slipped his phone into his pocket. "I'm going to make a chicken broth tonight. You're going to drink it and keep it down." If he could get electrolytes and hydration into him, the immediate danger should pass.

Sherlock gave the slightest of nods and took John's offered hand. Still too weak to stand, let alone walk, Sherlock leaned into his flatmate as his body was half carried, half dragged to the sofa.

If this was to work -- this time, finally, after so many failures, Sherlock would have to be more careful. Focused, unwavering, and as _thin_ as the beam of a laser.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never wanted to end up like his brother, slowed by a thick coating of heavy lard. So he'd started reading Mummy's diet books. They were rather unscientific and below his level, with titles like Eat Yourself Slim, Trimming for your Dressage Competition, Winners are Thinner, and Secrets Of The Austrian Water Fast. But with sufficient cross-referencing -- against one another, and against his admittedly incipient knowledge of biochemistry, they proved their use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly to everyone who read and left kudos. I'd especially like to thank insultdetective and chironsgirl. It means a lot to get actual feedback and to know that I'm not just shouting into the void. This short little chapter tumbled out this evening. Poor wee Sherlock's a prodigious one. Apologies to the typos and errors that are probably still in here -- I always seem to find at least three minor nitpicks after posting.

When he was nine years old, Sherlock refused dessert for the first time. 

"It's not good for you," he lectured at Angelica, the slightly dull French au pair his father had hired that spring. "Nothing but a mound of processed sucrose and lipid molecules." It was evident by her glazed stare that she was not getting it. "That's sugar and fat."

"Ah, but a bit of sugar and fat can do petite Monsieur Sherlock good. And it's for a special day."

Sherlock pushed the cake away roughly, the delicate slice falling on its side, a lacy strip of fondant sliding onto the plate. 

"Come on Sherlock, be a good lad. It's my last birthday before Uni." Mycroft gestured with a frosting-coated fork, his tone falsely affable. "Besides, Angelica's spot on. It'd do you a bit of good. Tuck in now."

Mycroft flashed a sardonic smile, its intended wicked effect considerably softened by his abundant extra chin. Sherlock felt he might vomit. He never wanted to end up like his brother, slowed by a thick coating of heavy lard. 

So he'd started reading Mummy's diet books. They were rather unscientific and below his level, with titles like _Eat Yourself Slim, Trimming for your Dressage Competition, Winners are Thinner,_ and _Secrets Of The Austrian Water Fast_. But with sufficient cross-referencing -- against one another, and against his admittedly incipient knowledge of biochemistry, they proved their use. Additionally, they had his beloved calorie counts buried in their indices. He was fascinated by calories. After all, calories were numbers and numbers put things in order so that they might be controlled. He'd memorised the calorie count for nearly everything Angelica regularly served, using that to quietly quantify everything he ate. He wasn't dieting, but he did favor the low calorie choices advocated in Mummy's books. Most of the time, it was easy peasy. With father's late nights at the embassy, mother's perpetual research conferences and lecture circuits, and Mycroft away at school, the family rarely dined together. Most days, there was nobody to watch him eat but Wart, the family's pedigreed English bulldog who had learned that Master Sherlock had recently become an exceedingly generous scrap-dropper. Furthermore, Mummy usually forbade sweets and encouraged healthy choices. When he gave up carbohydrate-laden pasta lunches for a salad -- no cheese, no dressing, no bread -- Mummy praised him for his mindful eating habits. So unlike his big brother, with his verboten stashes of crisps and chocolate. 

Sherlock had started weighing himself as well -- sneaking into the master bathroom every morning to use his mother's scale, logging it against his calories consumed and height. He'd also nicked a weight chart from his pediatrician's office. His weight, given his height and age, was in a place on the chart that was shaded in dark red -- under the fifth percentile. The dark red category included tips on how to entice picky eaters and add extra calories to dishes, mostly involving chocolate sauce. Sherlock liked the chart. Not that he was trying to lose weight. He simply wished to track himself, finding comfort in the edges of standards. Being a Holmes, it was a given that his intelligence was far to the right of the bell curve, and he'd decided early on, after seeing Mycroft balloon over the years, that he'd much prefer to have a body that was in the dark red area of the weight chart. And as he'd always been a waifish boy and a fussy eater, he found it was easy to stay there. He had even lost six pounds in the past month, all without dieting. 

Nevertheless, he would definitely, absolutely not let one morsel of Mycroft's horrid birthday cake pass through his lips. 

But this time, Mummy, Sherlock's dearest ally in his struggle to say un-Mycroftlike, gave him a Look. "It would mean a lot to your brother, dear." 

Sherlock swallowed, his tongue dry. "I'm not feeling well. It'll make me sick. Father, may I be excused?" This was true, to some extent. It had been a fully scheduled day -- visits to relatives and engagements with family friends who'd not seen Mycroft in nearly a year. Sherlock had eaten far, far too much that day, even after managing to skip the fry-up breakfast his brother had insisted Angelica prepare that morning. Dinner alone felt like an expanding lead weight in his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to take refuge in his biochemistry books and their graceful, functional, waste-not geometries. 

"Sherlock..." His father began. 

"Let him go," Mycroft muttered between a fluff of moist white cake. "He probably has a mouse skeleton to dissolve in acid. Far more appetising than birthday cake, I'm sure." 

Sherlock scowled, but tromped upstairs. He flung himself into his bed where he logged that day's calories as best he could. Special dinners and lunches out were very hard to track. He felt a nauseating wave of guilt as he watched the calculated numbers add up. Enough for two and a half days. That sorted it. Good time as any to try the Austrian Water Fast. Over the lined paper of the next two days, Sherlock entered large zeros, relishing the emptiness of the ovals. That was how it started, more or less. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was, without a doubt, anorexia nervosa. Even before he'd hailed a taxi to rush him home from Oxford, Mycroft knew. He'd been suspecting -- no, worrying -- about it for two years. He had noticed how Sherlock shivered in the summer, and how rawboned and frail his frame looked in his winter clothes. And whenever they'd eaten together, he'd seen that obsessive, calculating look in Sherlock's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief one this afternoon. Caring might be a weakness, but Mycroft isn't quite as heartless as he wishes he would be. Hope somebody's still reading. Please don't hesitate to speak up -- this is my first time writing fanfiction and it's a bit nerve-wracking, particularly dealing in issues that have impacted my life for so long. I just don't want this to be too cathartic and gratuitous.

It was not anorexia. The doctor had determined that, after a lengthy discussion with the senior Holmes behind closed doors and with the shades drawn. Like the sort of talks Mr. Holmes generally reserved for foreign dignitaries and politicians. He treated it like a critical matter because it was. After all, diagnoses like anorexia -- good heavens, a mental disorder, could be disastrous to Sherlock's career options. Mr. Holmes knew that all too well in his line of work. One mention of depression or anxiety in your record can rob you of several levels of security clearance. It would be an utter waste if one of his sons lost an opportunity to follow in his footsteps merely on account of a passing childhood phase. Children go through phases, after all. There was a time, when he was a toddler, when Mycroft loathed pizza. Mycroft, who could now polish off three takeaway orders from Pizza Express in a single sitting. So these things happen, and soon enough it'll all be sorted, and things will be back to normal.

It was not anorexia. It was all those wretched other boys, the bullies, that had made him stop eating and collapse on the steps of his dormitory, one and a half stone underweight . Mummy stroked Sherlock's bony hand tenderly, careful to avoid the tangle of IVs and monitor wires. Her dear little Sherlock, the brilliant little boy who'd earned A-levels in Mathematics and Chemistry by the age of ten -- three full years earlier than Mycroft. The papers had wanted to do articles on him of course, just as they wanted to do with Mycroft, but she had refused in both cases. Her brilliant sons deserved a normal life -- as normal as one blessed with brains like that could be. Perhaps after this, she'd get Sherlock back at home. She'd never been in support of Sherlock leaving to school two years early. A tiny eleven year old, too clever for his own good, amongst all those older boys. She knew they'd tease him, and they did. But her husband, along with Sherlock, had overruled her. He was languishing at the local school -- even the advanced courses, even with the skipped grades. But they hadn't listened to her, and now look at what happened! Sherlock was little more than skeleton. She should have fought harder against the whole idea.

It was, without a doubt, anorexia nervosa. Even before he'd hailed a taxi to rush him home from Oxford, Mycroft knew. He'd been suspecting --no, worrying -- about it for two years. He had noticed how Sherlock shivered in the summer, and how rawboned and frail his frame looked in his winter clothes. And whenever they'd eaten together, he'd seen that obsessive, calculating look in Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft, after all, knew the perpetual calculus of calories well. He was no stranger to diets, with all his cursed corpulence. Or rather, former corpulence. He was still a bit chubby, but at long last Mycroft had found something that worked for him, a method that allowed him to indulge as much as he'd liked with nothing to show for it. So long as he was careful anyway, and was fastidious with the teeth-brushing after purges. And no more than twice a day -- that was his limit. So he ate his low-carb vegetarian salad wraps for dinner, and then, a few hours afterwards, so they'd had a chance to digest, he'd follow it up with a pint of full-fat ice cream and half a tin of his favorite biscuits. Perhaps a couple packets of crisps if he was craving savory. And then, up it came. No muss, no fuss. Bulimia was nothing more than a tool to achieve his ends., and like any tool, none would come to harm if he used it well. Of course, he could well afford to lose a few more stone. Sherlock most certainly could not, that was clear to Mycroft as he sat here in the hospital room -- Sherlock's body scarcely made an impression in the bed. That -- along with the apparent fact that his parents were in denial of what was obvious to him -- bothered him terribly. He did not want his little brother to be ill. Stroking the bamboo cane handle of his umbrella, Mycroft spoke softly, unsure if Sherlock was truly asleep or just avoiding conversation by keeping his eyes closed. "Little brother, I'm afraid we have far more in common than either of us would prefer."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he had loaded his plate - heaps of meat, Yorkshire pudding, buttered parsnips, cranberry sauce. But now, with the spread out before him, the calories were screaming in his head. And he had been doing so good in his experiment. It had been eight days without food - two more and he would have beat his record. This would set him back. He was terrified of the food and of the sudden failure of his plan. He didn't know what to do. That scared him too. Sherlock Holmes always knew what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope somebody is still reading along. Please don't hesitate to leave a comment, even a critical one. They're -- ironically -- like food for me, to know that I'm reaching someone. This story is more than a little therapeutic for me, and I only hope somebody else connects with it as well. And as always, please - if you're struggling with any eating issues, seek help.

Sherlock stared at his Christmas dinner, his entire family watching him. Wart was licking his ankle under the table, trying to coax Master Sherlock into dropping a fatty slab of goose.

His plan had been to eat. To make a show of it, to prove that he was fine, completely fine. To have a good meal, without the usual arguments over the size of his servings and the amount he actually ate - always too small, always too little. He had envisioned it in his mind - his mother smiling in relief, his father giving him an approving nod, and Mycroft trying not to betray the pride that beamed in his eyes.

So he had loaded his plate - heaps of meat, Yorkshire pudding, buttered parsnips, cranberry sauce. But now, with the spread out before him, the calories were screaming in his head. And he had been doing so good in his experiment. It had been eight days without food - two more and he would have beat his record. This would set him back. He was terrified of the food and of the sudden failure of his plan. He didn't know what to do. That scared him too. Sherlock Holmes always knew what to do.

Food wasn't necessary, that was the hypothesis. It was merely an ancient, primitive method of obtaining nutrients, before the advent of things like scientifically formulated supplements. He had come to this idea on his own, but he had since found medical literature that confirmed it. There was a morbidly obese man in the states who had lived off nothing but carefully regulated supplements for nine months. So it was not an entirely untested hypothesis. Posing as a school boy writing up a paper on the obesity epidemic, he had contacted the paper's authors himself, asking for details beyond the published article. To make his story more believable, he even dropped a few grammatical mistakes in his writing, cringing as he did so. He couldn't have them know what he was really doing with their information. They'd think him crazy or anorexic, and Sherlock was neither. The doctors had even confirmed that.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had not yet reduced his calorie consumption to the ideal zero. He still consumed an estimated 50 calories per day - his supplements by oral route. He would prefer to utilise an intravenous route, but he had yet to accomplish this in the school's chemistry lab nor had he been able to find a local shop that carried anything suitable.

Furthermore, Sherlock was certain that he didn't need to weigh anything more than 4 stone 5 pounds. He'd arrived at that number by estimating the weight of his organs, essential bodily fluids, minimal smooth muscle responsible for organ function, and his skeleton, at his current height of 5'6. He had liked the number he had arrived at - the pleasant tidiness of it. Four stone, five pounds. Anything coming in would go out. No excess, no distraction. A perfectly tuned machine. He was a brain, not a caveman. A research chemist, not a farmer. Fat and muscle were obsolete in today's world. Of course, at age fourteen, he was likely to grow and would have to re-estimate regularly, but he believed this was achievable. He was a good deal away, at a dismal 5 stone 6 pounds, but he was getting closer each day.

Truthfully, the less he had of a body, the happier he would be. It was as useless as the vermiform appendix. A vestigial organ. He'd be pleased to chop it off. Sometimes he fantasised about his brain in a jar, swimming with a perfectly balanced cocktail of nutrients, electrodes jammed into the sucli, controlling his world by proxy - commanding a robot or a computer with his thoughts alone. A perfect neural link without the clumsy, imprecise interference of a body.

Of course, It had taken him some time to determine how to replace the basic function of calories - energy. He'd toyed with stimulants - copious amounts of tea, various formulations of medications intended for the treatment of hyperactivity, even caffeine-laden diet pills he'd nicked from Tesco. However, it was not until he'd discovered cocaine that he had his answer.

Cocaine did everything and more. It extinguished what was left of his appetite while providing him energy. It even quickened his mental apparatus, unlike food that left him so sluggish and foggy. Cocaine was far, far better than food. As soon as his relationship with the local dealers had grown strong enough, he had begun to replace calories with his beloved seven percent solution. He much preferred injections to snorting - particularly after reading of horrific sinus and nasal injuries sustained by chronic users. His nose was simply to closely linked to his brain to risk it.

And now, all too aware of his family's stares, Sherlock didn't know what to do. He only knew that he could not eat.

"Is everything all right?" His mother asked tentatively, the fear apparent in her voice.

Sherlock licked his lips. "Not hungry." This was absolutely true, after all. He didn't even feel hunger anymore. The signals had grown weaker and weaker until they'd simply faded away. He'd considered it a triumph, one less physical malady standing in the way of perfection.

He shifted in his seat, the hard wood grinding into his pelvic bones and coccyx. He wrapped his hand around his glass of water and sipped slowly, the water sloshing as his hand trembled.

"How much do you weigh now, Sherlock?" Mycroft intoned. "A good bit less than six stone, I'd wager."

Several things happened in the next few moments. His mother let out an anguished sob. Sherlock saw a twitch of movement in his periphery, and the deductions began spiraling. He'd learned to read people and situations since going away to school - a necessary defense mechanism to avoid bullying or beatings. It was easy and he found he was very good at it.  
 _  
A slight flare of his father's nostrils - he was angry - his chin trembling - angry and frustrated, then - his left hand curled into a fist - his dominant hand - his forearm flexed under the fabric of his dinner jacket - preparing for physical exertion - the hoarse scrape of a chair being pushed away from the table - his father was going to hit him._

His father was not a violent man, preferring always to talk things out before they had escalated to physical violence - or, more commonly in his line of work - war. He had never even spanked either of his sons - corporal punishment was a cruel and stupid practice. But now, five years of frustration and worry and pain had built up into his left fist and Mr. Holmes had no idea what else to do.

Sherlock, even when he had seen it coming, had no time to respond, waiting in stunned, paralysed silence for the blow to connect with his jaw. When it did, Sherlock's body flew backward with the chair. He was vaguely aware of his mother's scream and his brother's shout as a shimmering bright black consumed his vision for a moment, and then all went silent as the world faded into nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His primary fuel was gone, and he had just spent forty minutes galloping across London, scrambling up fire escape ladders and over roofs. The adrenaline which had propelled him this far had begun to subside, and he was becoming all to aware of his physical condition. The half-frozen state of his feet -- now shoed, but not until his toes had gone numb in his thoroughly soaked socks. His legs had begun to tremble uncontrollably and his vision wavered threateningly. He was weak. If he didn't eat, he would collapse and likely succumb to hypothermia before he'd be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay in this chapter, yesterday was a hectic one. A bit of a lengthy transitional chapter here. As always, comments and kudos are cherished.

When Sherlock came to, he was in his bed, the sky deep blue of the early winter twilight. A narrow angle of warm light cut through the room from the hallway, where Mycroft's jacket slung over the back of the heirloom fauteuil that usually sat unused in the corridor outside his bedroom.

Sherlock knew he couldn't stay here. 

With the left side of his face swollen and half his visual field blurred as a result, Sherlock squinted into the brightness, discerning the unmistakable polished black leather of Mycroft's Barker wingtips. Not his house shoes, Sherlock noted. He was expecting a chase.

If he was going to run, then, he'd better do it quickly and decisively. Closing what he could of his eyes, Sherlock visualised the layout of the house, the neighborhood and his likely routes of escape. He would leave the house via his balcony, of course, as he'd done dozens of time as a child. Over the rail and onto the first floor gable --

The rustle of Mycroft folding his newspaper. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock threw his duvet aside, grabbing his still-packed rucksack from his armoire as he lunged for the French doors leading to his balcony. He blinked away a sudden bloom of sparks in his vision as he struggled with the latch. 

Mycroft was already darkening the doorway, arms folded. Sherlock didn't need to look back to know the superior smirk his brother wore -- he'd caught the mouse. Mycroft closed the distance between the door and Sherlock with a few strides. With a balletic twist, Mycroft disengaged the latch. Sherlock whipped around, a snarl primed in his face before dropping it in surprise. This was not the familiar look of a smug housecat that Sherlock had expected. Mycroft's face was replete with sadness, pity, and defeat. "I'm not going to stop you." He pushed open the French doors, the December chill hitting hard. "Happy Christmas, little brother."

Sherlock felt the flutter of something unrecognisable in his chest for a moment. Then he was over the iron wrought balcony railing, to the gable below and then to the snow, stinging cold to his sockfooted feet.

xxxx

It was only when Sherlock fell, slipping on an unmelted patch of ice in an alley, well into the East End, when he realised it.

The top pocket on his rucksack was unzipped.

That was where he'd kept his cocaine. Predictably, his stash was gone. He knew he couldn't go back -- true to his word, Mycroft hadn't stopped him, but Sherlock was sure he was being followed. If not by Mycroft, then by a hired hand. And if not followed, then tracked. Omniscience was Mycroft's expertise, loathe as Sherlock as was to admit it.

His primary fuel was gone, and he had just spent forty minutes galloping across London, scrambling up fire escape ladders and over roofs. The adrenaline which had propelled him this far had begun to subside, and he was becoming all to aware of his physical condition. The half-frozen state of his feet -- now shoed, but not until his toes had gone numb in his thoroughly soaked socks. His legs had begun to tremble uncontrollably and his vision wavered threateningly.

He was weak. If he didn't eat, he would collapse and likely succumb to hypothermia before he'd be found.

xxxx

The kebab shop was easy enough to find -- its neon sign glowed like a beacon at the end of a row of shops otherwise darkened for Christmas day.

A rotating log of fatty lamb glistened under the harsh, untempered fluorescent lights. There was, of course, absolutely nothing on the menu appropriate for breaking an eight day fast.

The shop attendant eyed him suspiciously. He knew what he looked like -- trousers torn, bruises blooming over half his face. On Christmas, no less. He leaned heavily against the counter, coaxing his brain to focus. He resented his sudden and complete subservience to his body's primitive needs.

The attendant looked confused when he'd asked for what he'd wanted, so he'd switched to his rusty Turkish. "One pita, dry."

She responded in English, annoyed, and clearly eager to eject him from her shop. "Only kebab and chips. You want a kebab?"

Of course Sherlock did not want a kebab. Kebabs were fast food, and fat people like Mycroft ate fast food. Almost as though in response, his legs seized and spasmed, on the cusp of giving out.

He nodded, spilling the requisite quid over the counter.

Hideous grease bomb in hand, Sherlock absconded to the nearest alley to partake of what Sherlock ruefully observed had become his Christmas dinner.

He sat on the back stoop of a shop, the green cast of a street lamp further unflattering the mess of food. It looked like sick.

Trembling, he mentally dissected and catalogued the ingredients. Half-wilted lettuce - 10 calories. Underripe slice of tomato, probably shipped in from afar - 15 calories. Diced white onion - 5 calories. Fatty lamb meat - 150-200 calories. Yoghurt sauce - 80-100 calories. Pita, whole wheat, thankfully thin -- 75-100 calories. And then the oil, which saturated the whole of the sandwich. Sherlock would have eaten the vegetables and the pita if they'd not been so thoroughly glazed in it. The oil likely contributed 800 calories alone. Sherlock tipped the sandwich, letting the entirety of the fillings slide onto the ground between his feet. Better the rats be sluggish and thick than him. He then unfolded the included napkins and began to methodically remove what he could of the oil from the pita. It was relatively hopeless, as though the bread had been left to soak in a tub of oil. He sank in despair. He was cornered by two ruthless enemies, his own body and the fuel it required.

He tore a piece from the slightly less-greasy edge and brought it to his lips, downing it with only necessary chewing, trying to avoid what he could of the taste. He nearly gagged as the whole of his mouth was coated with grease. Deciding it best to get it over with, Sherlock tore the pita into strips and frantically shoved piece after piece into his mouth, swallowing with minimal engagement of the food. It was simply a necessary action, there was no enjoyment in it. He was less than halfway through when his stomach recoiled with a lurch. Stumbling over his rucksack, Sherlock scarcely made it to a bin where his body forcefully rejected the nourishment it had demanded. When there was nothing left, Sherlock slid against a wall, frustrated and exhausted. He let his knees buckle, and hit the ground hard, sending a coil of pain up through his pelvic bones. The corners of eyes pricked with wet heat. Sherlock Holmes did not cry.

He was going to die in this alleyway. He wondered if the autopsy would read starvation or hypothermia. A humiliating legacy, either one. Not that Sherlock cared -- once it was over, it was over. As though on command, his vision bloomed with grey and the world began to float from view. It was almost comforting.

And then the world came crashing cruelly back. Sherlock jolted, adrenaline suffusing through his brain. Someone was coming, fast, judging by the unmistakable scuffle of running in trainers. A big somebody, Sherlock deduced by the quality of the sound and rhythm. At least 6'4", 18 stone. Sherlock's already pounding heart grew erratic. He needed to run.

Scrambling against the wall behind him, he made an failed attempt to stand. He envisioned his autopsy report once more, mentally crossing out both hypothermia and starvation and replacing it with homicide. So a common knifing in a back alley would bring down the last in the illustrious Holmes bloodline. Dull.

Then a voice rang out, echoes cracking against the narrow brick-walled alley. "Oi! You there!"

It was too late and he was too weak.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Fishy, a twee seafood chain aimed at families and children, had been Sherlock's favorite restaurant when he was very young. They gave children paper eyepatches and addressed them as Cap'n with exaggerated Bristol accents. It was there, over a plate of oysters that he'd announced that he wanted to be a pirate. Pirates, after all, don't have to go to school with idiots and nobody tells them to stop being rude. And also they were allowed to keep monkeys as pets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really difficult to write. In part due to my history with the absurdly self-destructive behavior portrayed in the next chapter and partly because I discovered the statistics page and am now terrified at how many visitors my little fanfic has received. I'll admit that I'm more than a bit paranoid, but I fear the silent ones are judging me or laughing at my amateur efforts. Furthermore, I am terribly insecure with perfectionist standards. This amounts to me hating myself when I find the copious amounts of errors and poor writing choices that litter this story thus far. It's not fun. So if my next chapter is some time coming, please understand. And for those who have left kudos and comments, thank you so much. You do much to alleviate my pathetic neuroses. One light note before I go -- can you spot the ACD canon reference in this chapter? Points to those who do.
> 
> -Alex

Sherlock feebly raised his arms above his head, utterly helpless to circumstance. He could not flee and he certainly couldn't fight, not in his current state.

"I'm unarmed. Wallet's in the rucksack. Left pocket. Take it and be on your way," he shouted at the dark form at the end of the alley, who'd since slowed to a lumbering pace. 

"Nah, I'm trying to stay out of trouble. 'Sides, messing with right bloody toffs like you's only asking for jail time." The figure came into a pool of light, the glow of the street lamp highlighting his grin in greenish streaks.

"Wiggins." Sherlock lowered his hands.

"Happy Christmas, mate. You look like shite. Had yourself a bit of a scuffle?"

Wiggins was an older boy he'd met last summer at that dismal wreck of a council flat that served as that week's shooting gallery. An utter idiot, but a loyal idiot who made himself useful more than once when Sherlock found himself needing biological specimens for a series of forensic experiments he'd been conducting at the time. Without Wiggins' assistance, Sherlock would have never been able to complete his examination of phencyclidine urinalysis. Sherlock always compensated him handsomely, but Wiggins never seemed to have more shelter than a friend's lice-ridden couch, almost certainly due to the face that he was hopelessly, alternately addicted to crack or cocaine, depending on the state of his funds at the moment. Sherlock hadn't seen him since he'd been sent to Feltham Youth Offender Institution over a year ago.

"Have you got anything?" Sherlock cut the niceties. After the kebab, he had all but sixty pence in his pocket and a charge card he didn't dare use when Mycroft was sure to trace it, but he'd deal with that when he got there.

"Well well. Somebody's eager to start where we left off. Anyway, ain't you the great Sherlock Holmes, boy genius and all that? Figured you'd be the one telling me what I've been up to." He raised his arms to the height of his shoulders and stood straight, as though inviting Sherlock to frisk him.

"No." Sherlock sighed and, feeling uncomfortably like a trick pony, darted his eyes down the length of Wiggin's oxlike body. Even in the dim light of the alley, Wiggins was an obvious read. "No, unfortunately, you've been clean since you were released from Feltham. You're currently undergoing a chemical rehabilitation program aimed at former youth offenders with a high rate of recidivism. You're mostly keeping at it because you fancy your therapist and think she might fancy you back. She doesn't. Never gets personally involved with patients and is in fact about to accept her long-time boyfriend's proposal. Don't spoil it for the poor girl." Sherlock flashed a brief and acrimonious smile.

Wiggins looked offended. "Unfortunately clean? Mate, I'm proud of myself. And I'm over Lizabeth anyway."

"No, you aren't."

"Anybody ever tell you you're a rude prick?"

"Hundreds. Ceaselessly."

"What're you doing out here on Christmas anyhow? Thought your fam was right minted."

Sherlock made a face.

"Know what? I don't want to know. Turned over a new leaf and all that. Judge not lest ye be judged. Your business is your business."

Wiggins offered one of his massive hands to Sherlock. Sherlock reached up, and was pulled into a standing position. The world spun and he slumped back onto the brick wall. "You don't look well," Wiggins observed.

"How astoundingly astute of you."

"In fact, you look like a toothpick I could snap 'tween two fingers."

"I'd rather you wouldn't."

Wiggins' voice softened. "You need a place to stay, mate? Not with me, mind. I'm at St. Mary's down the street. Good place, real nice Christmas spread tonight. Figgy pudding and all. But 'Ol Loving Arms Wayward Shelter's usually's got an extra bed or two. Uptight cunts over there, and they only serve watery porridge and stale baps, even on Christmas, but they don't ask questions."

Sherlock nodded, eyes downcast. Watery porridge sounded far better for the state of his gastrointestinal tract than kebab. 

"Right then. I'll take you there." Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have shooed him away, as he knew perfectly well where the shelter was located and how to get there, but he was hardly at his best tonight. He took two swaying steps toward his rucksack before Wiggins stepped in. "You just stay upright." Wiggins hoisted Sherlock's rucksack to his shoulder with a single arm. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and tucked it over his shoulders, bending his knees to spare Sherlock the indignity of being lifted entirely off the ground.

Wiggins was an idiot, but he was a stalwart one, and that made him far better than most.

xxx

Wiggins was right -- the night staff at Loving Arms questions asked nothing but his age and if he was a victim of abuse. He lied on both counts, and they showed him to his bed and offered to heat him up some porridge.

For the next three days, Sherlock scarcely left his bed at Loving Arms, losing himself in the textbooks he'd had in his rucksack and fighting a mild rhinovirus he'd apparently contracted on his dash across London. Occasionally he reluctantly took a bowl of porridge in the communal dining hall, slowly coaxing his stomach into remembering its digestive duties. He didn't like it, but until he got back to his school, his connections, and his fuel; he had little choice.

On the third day, when his residence hall had reopened and he was preparing to leave, Sherlock got a letter addressed to him at the shelter. Naturally, it was from Mycroft. He scanned the letter -- the usual platitudes. Father's sorry, Mummy's worried sick. He'd included a gift card as well, £200 for Something Fishy Seafood Cafe, urging him to eat and reminding him that if he continued on his current path that he would certainly die. He had kindly included a vivid description of the biological process of dying from starvation. Sherlock ripped up the letter and pocketed the gift card. 

Something Fishy, a twee seafood chain aimed at families and children, had been Sherlock's favorite restaurant when he was very young. They gave children paper eyepatches and addressed them as Cap'n with exaggerated Bristol accents. It was there, over a plate of oysters that he'd announced that he wanted to be a pirate. Pirates, after all, don't have to go to school with idiots and nobody tells them to stop being rude. And also they were allowed to keep monkeys as pets. He was all of four then, and yet for years afterwards when anyone in his family asked him about his career aspirations, he'd snap back, 'I already told you. Pirate.'

The moment he saw Wiggins -- exactly where he knew he'd find him, Sherlock slapped the gift card into his hand. "Two hundred quid on that. Don't bother taking Lizabeth. She wouldn't be impressed and she's never going to change her mind regardless."

Sherlock strode away swiftly, leaving Wiggins behind, sputtering his gratitude. He hailed the first taxi he saw and was off.

xxxx

The first day back at the hall was quiet and peaceful. Winter holiday wasn't over for another fortnight -- he was the only non-international student in the hall. By noon, he'd contacted his dealer and properly refueled. He'd been eating a few days at that point and resented that he'd have to readjust his body to his ongoing experiment once again.

At dinner, he set about at his usual research in the library -- reading chemical science journals and the occasional mathematics treatise. He was starting to feel more clear-headed, the familiar comfort of an empty stomach and the sharp, chemical energy of his chosen narcotic. He plugged his headphones into his portable radio tuned to Radio 3. The playful first movement of Paganini's Violin Concerto No.1 filled his ears. He was content.

The second movement had barely started when Sherlock felt the subtle vibrations of footfalls on the carpet. Sherlock glanced up. Herr Müller, one of the German instructors gave him a mirthless smile. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"You know my name, bravo." Sherlock shot back, oily with sarcasm. All instructors knew his name, one way or another.

"Yes."

"You're here for me, made obvious by your --"

"Stop. You are to dine with me in my office from this point forward."

Sherlock dropped the band of his headphones, more surprised that he did not anticipate this development rather than the development itself. He recovered and narrowed his eyes.

"Mycroft? Did he put you up to this?"

"Your father, actually."

Sherlock seethed. His face still thrummed in pain, the swelling still apparent in his cheeks. How dare he.

"If you refuse, you face instant rustication." He turned on his heel. "It starts now. You will follow me to my office."

Sherlock was too bewildered to do anything but obey as the instructor led him across campus to the languages building, but as soon as he entered Müller's office, he had a plan. And it would work.

The office was minimally decorated and chilly. Not underheated, but with an open window. It was not particularly large, but a wide mirror behind Müller's desk opened the space considerably. A small table sat adjacent to Müller's desk, a full dinner tray laid upon it. There was a scale in the middle of the floor. 

"You will also weigh in on a weekly basis. We do that first."

Sherlock registered this new condition and already began to adapt his plan to it. An annoyance, certainly, but no reason to abandon his experiment. He slipped off his shoes and stepped toward the scale.

"No. Accuracy is essential. Surely you know that, Mr. Holmes." Müller drew the blinds closed. "You may leave your underwear on. But only that."

For the second time that evening, Sherlock was taken by surprise. He did not allow anyone to see his body. He scarcely looked at the loathesome appendix himself. But again, he saw no way around. Mouth dry, heart hammering, Sherlock began to undo the buttons of his shirt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took Sherlock three minutes and four seconds to get from Müller’s office to the nearest private toilet, and another two minutes and fifteen seconds for the ipecac syrup to take effect. On an ordinary day, less than half an hour passed from the first bite of the meal to the purge. Few calories were effectively absorbed that early in the digestive process, and likely the effort of vomiting metabolized more than what was absorbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for leaving this work for so long. This chapter, and the one following it, were extraordinarily difficult to write. 
> 
> However, I must say that I am utterly touched by your comments. They pulled me through some dark times this autumn and I only hope you can forgive my absence. If anyone is still reading this story, I hope my writing has not suffered over much due to my lack of practice.

In a feeble act of rebellion, Sherlock folded each article of his outfit as he removed it, every movement painstaking, meticulous, and neat. His winter overcoat, his crested wool blazer, his uniform shirt, the thin jumper he wore under his shirt, the long-sleeved thermal he wore under that, and the undershirt below that.

Müller simply watched, saying nothing.

Sherlock's excess of layers served a two-fold purpose. First, they bulked him up a little, thereby discouraging the gawking eyes of tedious imbeciles. Secondly, he was always cold, particularly in the winter months. Little body fat, of course, came with the unfortunate secondary effect of little insulation. A minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless. He found hunger far easier to disregard than cold.

And so he stood, willing himself not to flush, or blink, or perspire, or shiver, or swallow. Not to show anything but cool compliance, in that drafty, mirrored office. Müller circled him methodically, as a wolf might a wounded deer. If he noticed the tiny tell-tale wounds on Sherlock’s injection site, he said nothing. 

Sherlock caught his own eyes in the mirror, pale and hooded under the dark wild crop of hair. As a rule, Sherlock did not look at his body, but for the weekly assessment of his measurements — his waist, his neck, his shins, his thighs, his forearms and biceps. Numbers were the only thing that mattered — there was no relevance in looks. He was not a shallow chat show schoolgirl anorexic.

And yet, as Sherlock saw himself, he felt a vague tinge of something he could not identify — a feeling — rising on the horizon of his awareness. His arms and legs were delicate, skeletal twigs, sheathed with ropey veins. His torso furrowed with the sharp hollows of ribs, and just under the sharp tip of his xiphoid process, a steady twitching. His heart. He was thin enough to see the pumping of his own heart. 

“Weigh in.” Müller commanded, opening a small leather book he’d retrieved from his breast pocket.

Sherlock stepped on the scale. 

“Nearly two stone underweight,” Müller observed, his pen scratching dryly against the paper.

The evidence was red and plain between his feet. He’d gained. He’d not yet had the chance to weigh himself since arriving back at school, and he’d gained two pounds. Rage cycled through his body — anger at himself for being so weak, and anger at his father for the judgmental, scolding eyes of Herr Müller. 

No matter. Sherlock was clever and determined. He would make the necessary adjustments, and he would see his experiment through.

***

Two meals each weekday were to be taken in Herr Müller’s office. One weigh-in per week, each Monday before lunch. His weight would be reported to his father by the end of the day. 

Water weighs approximately two pounds per litre, and Sherlock could manage two and a quarter litres on an empty stomach. This provided room to lose nearly half a stone. While his solution was not elegant nor long-tern, it was nevertheless a solution. If he was careful, it could last nearly two months — sufficient to convince his father that this silly arrangement was not necessary. 

So he ate. Quickly. Fats and proteins came first, and the rapid-digesting simple sugars last. The ordering of his meals were essential for minimal impact. Müller scarcely regarded Sherlock as he took his meal, glancing away from his game of solitaire only once Sherlock was finished. Sherlock, normally irritated by inattentiveness, was tremendously grateful that his father had hired this idiot of a tutor. 

It took Sherlock three minutes and four seconds to get from Müller’s office to the nearest private toilet, and another two minutes and fifteen seconds for the ipecac syrup to take effect. On an ordinary day, less than half an hour passed from the first bite of the meal to the purge. Few calories were effectively absorbed that early in the digestive process, and likely the effort of vomiting metabolized more than what was absorbed. He had tried, the first day, a manual triggering of the vomit reflex, but a simple finger down the throat is just that — simple. Simple, but at the cost of effectiveness, and entirely unacceptable. But with emetics, he could be certain. The ipecac syrup was neither a quick nor easy purge — each round utterly hollowed him out, the muscles of his torso aching and quivering with dehydrated heaving after there was nothing left.

It was a punishing, painful process, but thoroughness of method was paramount. Despite the pain — or perhaps because of it — Sherlock relished each searing retch that tore through his throat. What was taken from his body was given to his mind — thinner meant sharper. 

Two meals a day meant two purges a day. Sherlock was exhausted and weak after each — purging sapped his energy far more than simply not eating did, but he persevered. He pushed it aside, along with the palpitations, the dizziness and the nausea. If nothing, it made the frenetic high of the cocaine more evident — feeling he might float away into vapor after each bump.

He lost two and a half pounds the first week — enough to make up for his gain, and then some.

Not that Müller knew — Sherlock swallowed early a litre and a half of water before his Monday weigh in, resulting in a quarter pound gain on the scale. Müller frowned. “I would have expected a little more.”

“I told you, I’ve a fast metabolism. Father knows this.”

With a sigh, Müller scribbled down the number in his leather bound book.

After that, a simple, innocuous request to use the toilet before lunch allowed Sherlock to rid the water from his stomach before taking his meal. Clockwork.

***

By Wednesday of that week, Sherlock had lost another pound. Less than a stone away from his goal, he thrilled. It was an ironic triumph — he’d scarcely lost weight so quickly as under the watch of Herr Müller.

He decided to call his father at the weekend and convince him to be done with this nonsense — in another week, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hold enough water to disguise his loss. He’d simply boast about his weight gain, thank his father for caring, and say that he’d been considering pursuing a career in government again. Despite his father’s own considerable skill at manipulation — of world leaders and guerrilla warlords alike — Sherlock found his father was quite easily swayed. 

Just a few more days, then. 

***

It was Thursday evening when it happened. Mr Holmes’s office phone rang — on the private, undisclosed number reserved only for international crises and family emergencies. 

Mrs Holmes was on the other end — her voice fraught and strained. 

“It’s about Sherlock.”


End file.
